


Third Time's A Charm

by THA_THUMPP



Category: The Strain (TV)
Genre: Bad Jokes, Before it was revealed that the Sun Hunter who hired Gus was named Vaun, Fist Fights, M/M, Not Quinlan, One Shot, Submitted before the S2 premiere of The Strain, Tongues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-03
Updated: 2014-11-03
Packaged: 2018-02-20 04:29:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,077
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2414960
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/THA_THUMPP/pseuds/THA_THUMPP
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This time Mr. Quinlan lets Gus try again. And again. And again...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Third Time's A Charm

**Author's Note:**

> OMFG finally. This draft has been on our desktop since the season finale... A pairing we told ourselves we wouldn't see. But whaddya know? We saw it. Wrote a little something. The end. Enjoy.
> 
> 8/13/2015 UPDATE: Just caught up on S2 of The Strain. Turns out Mr. tall-dark-and-ugly enough to be handsome is just a Sun Hunter named Vaun. We're too lazy to go back and fix the name, so just know that any mention of "Mr. Quinlan" in this fic is Vaun...

_I’m listening._

When Gus said it, he thought it sounded more like, _how ‘bout I just give you my name and number, and you call me when you have somethin’, puto._ That something being a job, his new job of playing bitch to some crazy coots.

Vampires, man. Turned out they were fucking real, nothing like the classic Dracula in those flicks he’d watched on the tube with his madre either. That Bela Lugosi hair and cheesy cape. Nah. These freaks were bad news. Worse, with their bucked teeth pointed like blades, skin the color of a pile of snow someone’d normally laugh and take a piss on.

But no one was pissing on these bad boys. Or pissing them off, period. Not without a little compensation, like a quick punch to the gut – the same kind Gus’d gotten a taste of earlier during interrogation.

That dude Mr. Quinlan.

Freak just showed up outta nowhere and black-bagged him like some sorta government-paid thug, loyal minions n’ all. Yeah. That’s right. _Outta nowhere_. BAM. Seriously, who the hell still did that?

Not those who were looking to play fair, that’s for sure. But what’s the saying about rules making good reads? To Gus, they were more like guidelines anyways.

Though that didn’t seem to be the case for Quinlan and his larger circle of homies.

From what Gus could tell they took to rules like bees to honey, like providence to their little clique of _by the people for the people_. Rules and regulations. Hell, it was the whole reason why Gus was chosen by them in the first place.

‘Cause who ever heard of a vampire walkin’ in the light and livin’ to tell the tale?

No one, that’s who.

So that’s where Gus came in, what he was signed up for. Back-up, a human meat shield. To help vampires fight other vampires, a turf war between bats and corpses – all ‘cause some dumbass bitch in the family fucked shit up and screwed the undead law. An ancient truce, or some shit like that… which was cool.

Fine and dandy.

But Gus sure as hell didn’t wanna get anywhere near those sleeping beauties ever again. Those locos strung up like Christmas ornaments down south, downstairs, wherever, somewhere in the building. Creatures that were apparently too busy drooling and dreaming about their next meal on the menu to notice him during Quinlan’s bride for revenge.

That, and a rich payday.

 _Money_. ‘Cause nobody could live in today’s society without dinero no more.

The paper of the world ran the people, just like Gus’d run his mouth – and now he was paying for it. With his time and his legs, screwing the odd jobs he’d done before and just hauling ass. Though not ‘cause he was going back on his word.

_Your training starts now._

Mr. Quinlan really had a way with his palabras. Short and to the point, no messing around like Wile E. Coyote, and just as they were said the dude was gone – gone with the wind like some cheapass parlor trick. But there were no smoke and mirrors here.

It was either life or death, and Gus wasn’t looking to get a visit from Good Hood Grim any time soon. No sir. He was gonna stick it out, stick it out ‘til his last breath went up to heaven and away… which was sooner than he thought.

Though it was more like knocked of wind.

One foot around the corner and Gus was tripping over his own two feet like they were both lefties. A stumble and then a mouth full of dirt – or in this case, palms shredded by gravel. But Gus wasn’t stupid, he knew there was no way his body just happened to pull a topsy-turvy on its own.

Bitch, he was clotheslined then dropped by the tip of a boot – a terrain boot.

He saw it. Real nice, buckled, and slick in color, the kind Gus’d expect to find at some kink shop… or Oakley store. Yup, after he dragged his eyes up he’d definitely go with Oakley, ‘specially when coupled with that protective gear.

Knee pads, for the win. Gus groused, and while he rolled against the cement, curling in on himself and cussing, Quinlan gracefully walked from the shadows like a valiant knight.

Though _knight_ only went as far as the way the vamp held himself. By appearance he looked more like an assassin. Shrouded in all black and ugly as fuck, but still sharp enough to rock the hoodie – a modern day, apocalyptic dark passenger.

Which explained a lot about his people skills…

 _“No.”_ Quinlan swooped down to pull Gus up by the back of his jacket, effortlessly, like a jock to a cheerleader. _“No more running.”_

His pick-up lines too, man. Freak had better luck at acting out than putting out, and Gus pulled away like he’d just touched something disgusting before settling to his feet, soon to brush at his pants like they were expensive and not just old boy jeans.

“Yo dawg, you gotta stop doin’ that.”

 _That_ , being popping outta nowhere like Casper the goddamn ghost. Though Gus saw Quinlan more as a merge and split of the Ghostly Trio. Rude and crude. ‘Cause nobody said nothing about him being friendly.

Or one for having a sense of humor.

 _“I am not your dog.”_ Quinlan countered, his voice dimensional, hollow, as he tucked his hands behind his back and took a stance. All G.I. Joe like. Honorable, attentive, his nose leveled. _“If anything you are mine. The Dhampir’s human vessel— a hunter to roam freely in the sunlight and battle evil when we cannot.”_

It was said more like a reminder, but hell, Gus didn’t need one. He’d heard the vamp loud and clear when they were getting all cozy and playing match-maker, striking their deal, going all quid pro quo. But there was just one little problem.

“Not until I see my cash, Fido.” Gus rubbed two of his fingers together in a sorta texturing gesture, _show me the money_ gesture. The talk of the casino, which stirred a few rumbling clicks from the vamp’s throat.

 _“In time.”_ Quinlan’s answer sounded philosophical, patient. But also like a brush-off, like he got a kick out of playing coy.

Except this was the twenty-first century, yo, and if there were no cards being shown, Gus was having second thoughts. It was in his movement, nerves twitchy like his step in place, legs spry like a boxer’s. ‘Cause he knew a ruse when he smelled one – _heard_ one, and after a shrug he turned to leave.

“You know what? Find someone else.” Gus bluffed with a wave over his shoulder, like walking away was just that easy. “I’m outta here, bro.”

But it wasn’t…

 _“We don’t just grab anyone off the streets to fight our wars._ ” Quinlan called out, still standing where he was left. Stock-still. _“They have to be slayers. Slayers by heart, but not by choice.”_

Again with the shrink talk. Wise words to a daft audience, ‘cause to a gangster all it really sounded like was insinuation, and Gus scuffed to a stop. His lip curling with his turn when he finally nursed his pet peeve.

“You sayin’ I’m a killer?” ‘Cause now this was personal.

 _“I’m saying that you’ve lost something._ ” Quinlan said. _“Something that gives you a reason to fight._ ” He bent back at the waist slightly, just enough to unhood his eyes. _“A reason to protect.”_

But that was just it.

Augustin Elizalde wasn’t just the type to protect and serve out of the goodness of his heart. Where were his fluid assets? His promised rich payday? Man had to eat, ‘specially with all this training Mr. Quin was demanding.

Harder than his boxing gigs, no doubt, and Gus’d worked up appetites before. Been served revenge dishes, IOU dishes, and his favorite dishes – Mexican, home’s cooking. But this was different, like chalk and cheese.

Gus, three weeks fresh outta Juvi Lockup, would be acting as humanity’s sword and shield. The Dhampir’s boy toy. Neither a title that seemed to fit the image he wanted, just a whole lot of nope crashing against down on his shoulders. And Gus was beginning to feel it too.

The pressure.

He’d be playing _sun hunter_ to a bunch of life-sized marshmallows just waiting to be offed by Sunny D. A daylight hidden well by the thick walls around and hovering darkness, but that didn’t mean it would hold forever – just like Gus’ rebellion to cooperate despite being penniless.

And it seemed like Quinlan still needed to do some convincing… or make a bet.

_“Come at me.”_

“What?” Gus looked Quinlan up and down for a minute, checking him out like he half expected the vamp to pull a fast one on him. “Why would I do that?”

 _“If you can land a hit I will see about getting you your money as soon as tomorrow._ ”

“Tomorrow, huh?” Gus perked. The words rang in his ears like marriage bells, bells that were swooning him into wedlock, and after a quick wink he let his smirk stay high on his lips. “Now we’re talkin’, bro.”

There was a little bounce in his step to reflect the pleasure in his voice too, real subtle but still there, and Quinlan had to hood his eyes again to keep them from rolling.

_Humans. They never learned._

Always too hasty and greedy. But Quinlan wasn’t there to correct commercial behavior. He was too old, too wise, and willed himself to focus on the task at hand – to teach Gus how to survive the world they now lived in.

_“I will give you three tries. Now come.”_

Uh-huh. Count D didn’t have to say it twice. In less than a minute Gus was throwing a punch, fists up all good and tight like he was just summoned into a ring with another boxer – a dulled down version of what actually stood before him.

A beady-eyed, six-foot tall gladiator wannabe.

But Quinlan didn’t show any emotion. No remorse or regret for being treated like a monster. Instead, he simply evaded. With a step. One goddamn sidestep to the left, and Gus fell with his own weight, landing with a guttural _oof_.

Then a wheeze and cuss, and without a glance down Quinlan stepped back into place, like the cement had invisible _stand here_ feet stickers stuck there or something. Something highly unlikely – ‘cause Gus was impulsive, but not blind, and after he pushed himself up he supposed that maybe the freak was just that good at doing guesswork.

That, and standing tall.

 _“Again.”_ Quinlan ordered, once again tucking his hands behind his back, warily but with confidence. Stanced and well-held.

Unlike Gus, who was more or less hunched now. Obviously winded. But there was a fire in his eyes, an aware spark that said he knew his chances were getting slimmer, nearly halved.

It was one down, two more to go.

So no more monkey business. No more jumping the gun. Tomfoolery aside, Gus’d have to make his next two tries count. He’d have to be careful. Yeah. Careful. ‘Cause he could see that stinger dancing in the vamp’s throat. Hear it too. That damn ten-foot-long lame-ass sorry-excuse for a tongue, all grinding and clicking like the it’d just been stuffed with pop rocks and coke.

And hell, he’ be damned if he was dumb enough to let it near him – not after seeing what it did to his best friend, Felix.

But just as Gus was caught staring at it too long, Quinlan struck – with the stinger. With that fucking organ of doom, and all fight fled from Gus’ mind as he made a slapdash duck.

Except he wasn’t quick enough.

The stringer smacked the side of his neck, nicking him about a millimeter deeper. But a millimeter was enough, and soon Gus was gaping like a fish, white as a sheet, one hand up and pressed to the cut like it was a fatal wound gushing liters of blood – which made him look plumb loco.

Even to a Dhampir.

 _“In a real fight…”_ Quinlan let his stinger slide back into his throat. _“You would be dead.”_

But this wasn’t supposed to be a real fight. It said so in the fine print. _Training_. Yeah, that’s right, from the dude’s own lips. So Gus wasn’t about to get over it. Instead, his gangster-self peeked through with the way he held out his arm, like he was holding an invisible gun sideways.

“You just…” Gus worked his tongue, but since he was so shaken the words didn’t seem to come. “Mother f—”

 _“Relax.”_ Quinlan chuckled, like a sick child who enjoyed watching a wingless dragonfly being eaten alive by ants – in the case, the ants in Gus’ pants. _“You won’t turn.”_

But Gus didn’t believe that. Nope, not for one sec.

“The hell you mean by that?” Gus’ voice cracked on _mean_ ‘cause he damn well wanted meaning.

Nah, scratch that.

Gus wanted an explanation, a guarantee that in less than five minutes he wouldn’t start showing symptoms. The signs of decay. Skin squirming full of worms and head balding like a pro wrestler, thinning the hair he already had cut real short – which by now he was beginning to think was going gray. Not ‘cause of age, though, but ‘cause right now he was scared shitless.

Until Quinlan gurgled.

 _“The Dhampir are hybrids, half-breeds, spawned of both human and vampire.”_ Quinlan allowed himself hold out a hand so he could wriggle a few fingers, most noticeably the middle one, which was longer than the rest. _“Therefore there are no pathogens in our blood.”_

Gus squinted. “Woah, woah. Back up.” He hesitated, his eyes the only features about him that looked relatively convinced about what he’d just heard. “You mean to tell me there’s actually a difference between you freaks and the one’s out there? That your guys’ tongues are just shootin’ blanks?”

A modern day rundown in thirty words or less, and Quinlan nodded.

_“That is correct.”_

Talk about a last minute tip-off, and Gus dropped his hand from his neck like he’d just been told he could stop holding the world on his shoulders. All the last of his fear and worry clean off his face after a quick ruffle in place. “That ain’t cool, bro.”

It wasn’t meant to sound sympathetic, but Quinlan angled his head like he agreed with Gus anyways, like he agreed with a _human_ , of all creatures. Though to Gus all it really looked like was something odd – that thing he’d seen some other vamps on the topside do like they were listening to another frequency or some shit like that. All screwy with their necks and swaggers like Michael J.

Not like Mr. Quinlan though. Man was more like a malformed drill sergeant, strict and still on call with his posture, up until he reminded Gus that time was precious.

_“Again.”_

Except by now Gus was beginning to think he knew better. That, and long distance was more his thing. ‘Specially after what just happened – a quick slit and a mini heart attack.

“’Least gimme a gun or something, yo.” Gus tried to reason with his hands. “’Cause I ain’t gettin’ pussy-whipped by your mangy ass again.”

But it seemed like the vamp had other plans.

 _“No.”_ Quinlan shot down, firmly, as he peeked from behind his hood again. _“Guns mean nothing without skill, without stealth._ _You do this my way.”_

And so it went.

But attempt number two ended just as bad as the first. Another hit and miss, alongside more muted curses and grunts. ‘Cause Quinlan was no longer being so tolerant. Dude’d used his feet again, kicked Gus right in the ass like a taunt – with enough force a human could handle, of course, before taking a step back.

“ _Last chance_.”

Didn’t Gus know it, and after slamming a fist into the cement like a spoiled child, he pulled to his knees and put some spring in his body. A stance that looked like he was back to boxing, but that was before he fiddled with his pants. In one smooth tug, Gus unsheathed his belt, nunchuk-style, before swinging it above his head and at Mr. Mysterious.

Which, funny enough, struck.

With God as Gus’ witness, it _struck_. The buckle landing Quinlan across the face with a whip-like lash, and Gus was left gobsmacked, his jaw slack with a strained smile.

The same went for Quinlan.

There were a few peregrine clicks from the Dhampir’s throat, almost in curiosity as he brushed a gloved hand over his cheek, which was oozing white blood and after a minute he sneered, showing his pointy teeth.

 _“Ah.”_ Quinlan breathed, virtually in admiration. Not too much of it, though. Just enough to show his interest in Gus’ quick wit to improvise before he leaned back and laughed. A conceded laugh. _“Good.”_

Nah. More like fucking sweet, Gus thought, ‘cause that money was now his, and he licked his lips – the praise obviously gone to his head as he fixed his stance for another hit, a _fourth_ hit, despite already meeting the requirements. But hell was he pumped. Though when he swung again it was more like cocky. Too cocky, and his ass got handed to him.

Big time.

Quinlan summoned his inner Bruce Lee and swiped for Gus’ leading wrist, gripping it tightly and using it to guide him into a fall. But only as far as a kneel, and when Gus started preaching like a preacher to be let go, that he gave, Quinlan withdrew.

 _“Focus on your losses, not your victories._ ” Quinlan bunted the belt away. _“Otherwise wealth means nothing when you’re dead.”_

His throat rattled in a warning before he moved to remind Gus of the duties attached to his rich payday.

 _“We start small. Diligent.”_ Quinlan reached around to his side strap and pulled out a nightstick, which he then tossed to the ground like a donation. _“Think you can handle it?”_

“Diligent, huh?” Gus scooped up the baton and examined it. Short, flexible. Then extended it, like he was testing out the weight and texture of the handle. “That’s a big word.”

 _“Let’s see if you can honor it.”_ Mr. Quinlan retook his pose again and Gus laughed.

Finally, something he was good at.

“It’ll be my pleasure, _güero_.”


End file.
